


Play That Song

by Hoodoo



Series: The Bar at the End of the Universe [12]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, OC Rick character, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-24 22:19:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14963243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: A new Rick with talented fingers comes into the Bar . . .





	Play That Song

**Author's Note:**

> The talented [nashida](https://nashida.tumblr.com/) kindly gave me permission to introduce her OC Rick "Steinway" to my slutty bartender. If you like him, check out their site: His backstory is [there](https://nashida.tumblr.com/post/174226200441/so-i-came-up-with-a-few-headcanons-facts-for-my) \+ in [Play Them Like Piano Keys](https://nashida.tumblr.com/post/174055418496/play-them-like-piano-keys-i-finally-bit-the%22rel=%22nofollow%22) , he's been to RickCon!

Breathless, you said choked out, “I thought—I thought you said you were . . . a pianist? Not a singer?”

Rick—Steinway, he’d insisted—chuckled with his lips still on your pussy. The vibration made you moan deep in your throat. “That’s right, beautiful,” he mumbled, just barely loud enough to be heard with his face between your legs. Then he paused. “And you’re no singer either, so put your mouth back to better use.”

He rocked his hips upward to emphasize that you’d stopped blowing him to ask a foolish question.

You steadied him with a hand around the base of his cock, and followed his implication, pulling him into your mouth just passed the point of being comfortable.

Steinway groaned and savored your mouth on his cock for a moment, then went back to eating you out too.

⁂

He’d come into the Bar looking an odd combination of haughty and lost. He wasn’t dressed like a typical Rick—more dapper and put together—and his hair was slicked back in a way you knew meant he cared more about appearances than not.

He sidestepped the rickety tables set randomly throughout the place and sidled up to the bar. You caught his eye and gave him a quick upward nod to acknowledge him, but finished with the patron who’d been there first before making your way over in front of him.

Placing a napkin in front of him, you said,

“Hi handsome. What can I get you?”

“A piano.”

That was a new one. You wracked your brain to try and remember any drink you’d ever heard called a “piano” and came up with nothing; this Rick sighed peevishly and clarified,

“A piano to play. Does this place have a piano? I’ve had a shitty day. I was hoping to-hoping to play a little, make some tips, maybe-maybe get a little drunk . . .”

You laughed in his face. “This place? Have a piano? Look around, Rick, this is one more drunken brawl away from a dive bar. We have a jukebox that every once in a while plays “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” no matter what was punched in. One time near Christmas we had a few drunk Garblovians who almost managed to sing something that may have been O Holy Night, but this isn’t really the place for a lot of music.”

He looked crestfallen and angry.

“How’s about I just get you a drink, okay?” you offered. “What’ll it be?”

He mumbled something about how if there’s no piano, there’s no way you’ll have any good cognac.

You stopped him.

Setting a snifter in front of him, you turned and scanned the shelf behind you.

“Here’s a 106 proof,” you called over your shoulder to him. “Will that do, or are you looking for a single harvest?”

“Single harvest . . .” he replied, and you can hear the incredulity in his voice.

You didn’t hide your smile as you pulled the bottle he selected off the shelf and carried it back over.

Pouring a healthy amount, you took his hands and wrapped them around the bowl of the glass. You let your fingers linger on his for a moment.

“Warm it up,” you advised him with a wink, then you moved off to the next patron who tapped impatiently on the bar for your attention.

⁂

You ended up pouring him another glass and he mellowed out, some. Towards the end of the night, you even got a little personal information: he was finally setting up residence on the Citadel due to some longstanding issues with someone called Jerry? Gerry?—that wasn’t a name you’d heard before but it didn’t seem like a vital piece of information—and he’d wanted his Morty to accompany him, but the kid sided with Jerry—Gerry?—and so Rick’d left, pissed off and frustrated, and looking to pound a piano to vent some of that fury, and maybe earn a little cash too.

“Well, Rick,” you ventured, “since there’s no piano here, would you be willing to pound something else?”

It was a risk; usually Ricks were fine with flirting that was just straight propositions, but he may be more sophisticated than crude innuendos.

He glanced at you sharply and you raised your eyebrows, but still held your breath.

“How did you know my name?” he demanded.

You shrugged. “Ricks come in here every now and then.”

“Ricks . . .” he muttered, and it was hard to tell if he was cursing them or praising them. He looked back up at you. “I’m not like the rest of them.”

They all said that.

“Call me Steinway,” he continued. Then he appraised you again and said, “I was hoping to make sweet music one way or another. You’ll do.”

⁂

So you took him home and were now engaged in some hardcore mutual oral sex; he’d kissed you briefly, just enough for you to taste the lingering sweetness of the cognac on his tongue, then in a flurry you both shed clothing and collapsed onto your bed.

Like all Ricks, he was stronger than he looked. You’d expected some standard foreplay: going down on him, plus or minus him going down on you, then sex, but he’d twisted you and pulled you over him while he laid back on the mattress, throwing one of your legs over him and shoving his face in your pussy before you can say anything about it.

His tongue made circuits through your folds, and the position made it easier for him to focus laser-like attention on your clit. If he shifted up a little, he could slip his tongue into you. You gasped and moaned, but knew he hadn’t chosen this position for your enjoyment alone.< /p>

Taking his erection in hand, you drop your mouth over his cock and blow him.

It wasn’t easy. He wrung deep sensations from you; a pleasurable ache that he manages to make you feel in waves. You try to keep up with him, try to use your mouth and tongue and suction to make him feel as good as he was doing for you. But his mouth is wicked and relentless, and it he uses it with the zeal and skill of someone who truly enjoyed eating pussy.

Through the surges of ecstasy you can imagine what his playing is like: all at once wild and skillful. A rare combination, that.

Still, he’s so good at what he’s doing and doesn’t seem to take any breaks you have to know if he practices breathing exercises, and that’s when you manage to ask the question about him singing.

You continue licking and sucking his cock. You’ve had some experience with this, and this particular position puts you in a place that you can take more of him in, more deeply. Several times you deep throat him enough that your nose is pressed to his spit soaked scrotum; you feel him groan when you do that and once, when you physically swallow while the head of his cock is just passed the back of your throat his hips and legs jerk.

You pull off him for some air, leaving a string of spit from your lips to his shaft.

Steinway chuckles, his breath puffing in a surprisingly rousing way against your sensitive nerve-endings. You hear him say something that sounded like,

“I’ll show you I’m a pianist,”

and his thin fingers slip into your slick cunt.

The sensation of them moving inside you makes you cry out. He finger fucks you with precision, tickling the outer part of your entrance and applying accurate pressure to your g-spot. He dips a third in, and it’s almost too much; at your long-winded moan and minute scuttle upward away he gives you a second to adjust. To distract you, his other hand makes tiny, gentle circles directly on your clit. His breath continues to blow against you too, and through all the different stimulations you relax enough for his third finger to slip more fully inside you.

As he feels this, he gently rotates his entire hand, twisting his fingers within you in a way you’d never felt before, causing an exquisite burst of bliss to settle in your gut.

You make an animalist noise of pleasure.

You feel him chuckle again and again his hips move suggestively upward, but you’re too far gone to be able to suck his cock while he’s playing you. You jerk him off instead, keeping yourself propped on an elbow and using one hand tightly at the base of his cock while the other strokes him; he’s dripping with your spit and the wet makes it easy.

Between the gasps he elicits from you, occasionally you can still swirl your tongue around the head of his cock. It’s not enough, you know that, but Steinway’s unrelenting and soon you’re coming on his fingers; your pussy clamps tightly on him and you feel wet heat throughout your body. He leaves his fingers in place and that drags the pleasure out immeasurably.

The aftershocks of it make you weak.

You rest, sweaty and shaky, on him, only partially bolstered by your knees and an elbow.

With a gentle but insistent shove, Steinway indicates you should move.

You do, pulling yourself off him, and drop a hand to your groin. A sweet ache echoes through you. Steinway doesn’t give you much respite, however.

“Feel good?” he asks, wiping his chin of your wet. You murmur a positive, and he grins. “Good. Sorry I stole the show there. Didn’t-didn’t give you the chance to really use your mouth how I bet you can.”

He didn’t actually sound sorry. You smile and begin to move lower on the mattress, to prove him right, but he takes hold of your arm and stops you.

“I’d prefer this . . .”

You feel malleable as he directs where he’d like you to be: straddling him again, but on his cock, this time.

Coming down from the high of your orgasm, your pussy is a combination of slick and tight from the muscle contractions. His cock is soaked too, though, and you take him in hand to steady him as you sink down. It feels glorious, him filling you, and even though you gasp you don’t pause until you’re sitting directly on him and he's balls’ deep in your cunt.

“Oh fuck,” you manage to mutter.

He groans but doesn’t speak.

You fuck him slowly, rolling your pelvis and feeling his length slip and out of you smoothly. You want to drag it out, want him to moan and cry out and plead, but even though he’s asked you to be on top of him, he has other ideas.

Steinway takes your wrists—your hands had been resting on his chest—and pulls them upward, to either side of his head. The move makes you lean forward, against him, and you’re unable to continue rocking your hips, for fear of him slipping out.

“Hold on here,” he orders you, and you automatically grab the iron framework of your headboard. He catches your eye and says fiercely, “Don’t let go.”

Then he drops his hands from yours and takes hold of your hips. It crosses your mind to ask what he is going to do, but when you feel him plant his feet on the mattress and he begins driving his cock into you in a fast, ruthless pace, you have to concentrate on not releasing the headboard like he demanded.

His hands, although gripping you tightly, stabilize you. You bury your face in his neck and cry out; he doesn’t give you the luxury of adjusting to his preference this time, like he had with his fingers. He simply continues to fuck you, hard, rapidly, his own breath coming in shallow grunts as he slams himself into your cunt again and again.

New sounds are torn from your throat. It’s a glorious feeling, him fucking you with abandon and desperation. Occasionally his rough movements threaten to unseat you; you definitely don’t want to pause and have to slip him back inside, so you deliberately clench your pussy around him.

That small change, your participation, extracts deeper moans from him. His tempo is still steady but it becomes a little more clipped, a little less smooth.

You know the telltale signs of a Rick nearing the end. Still feeling a little guilty you weren’t up to par using your mouth, you disregard his order to keep hold of the headboard and, without warning him, push yourself up, back and off him completely.

His eyes snap open.

 _“What the fuck—“_ he tries to say, but interrupts himself with a cry as you pull his cock fully into your mouth again.

The taste of yourself on him fills your mouth with saliva and you suck him hard. You don’t let up this time, and his hands grab at you, entangling themselves in your hair and keeping you tight on him. Your nose is pressed uncomfortably in his pubic hair and against his pubic bone, but you ignore the minor discomfort.

Steinway’s grip becomes stronger and his cry morphs from a monosyllabic, “oh-oh-oh-oh—“ to a drawn-out groan as he comes thickly in your throat and mouth.

You stay in place as his cock throbs through his ejaculation.

Eventually his fingers twitch open to release you and slowly you pull yourself off him. A thicker strand of semen-laced spit kept you connected to him until you break it with your fingers as you sit back.

Panting, Steinway watched you with hooded eyes.

“I told you to keep hold of the headboard,” he said in a low voice.

You shrug indifferently, but don’t miss the slightly dark glint in his eye. You’d crossed a boundary you hadn’t realized was in place.

In a moment, however, he relaxed.

“First time ignorance,” he muttered cryptically. “Or arrogance . . .”

He doesn’t explain himself, and you don’t ask. You hand him a few tissues, and mop yourself up too.

Like with many Ricks, there’s not much more to be said as he gets dressed again. You offer to let him spend the night, but he declines, which is typical. He mentions that he expects to be playing in a few lounges on the Citadel, if you ever make it there—you don’t—and you invite him to return to the Bar any time he’d like. He mumbles something—“maybe”—as he enters coordinates in his portal gun, but you know he won’t. There’s no piano there, and you know you’re not a big enough draw for him to return. You were simply a distraction tonight, a quick lay just to help him forget for a moment he lost a more important companion.

You’re okay with that.

You wish him well. He waves one of his hands, and he and his talented fingers are gone.

_fin._


End file.
